The Folks at Fifty-Eight (42 page)

“Yeah, I vaguely remember you telling me.”

“So what time was this?”

“I don’t know. Around eight-thirty, I guess, maybe a little after.”

“So where the fuck have you been since then?”

“Looking for this place.”

“Jesus Christ! Well you got yourself into this fucking mess, J. Edgar. You’re just gonna have to get your fucking self out of it.”

“Fine.”

Hammond felt a good deal less certain than he sounded. Gabriel asked the obvious.

“So what the fuck are you gonna do?”

“Thought I’d ask you to check out the official reports, find out if I’m on somebody’s wanted list. The cops looked like the genuine article to me: Red Indian motorcycles, the lot.”

“I’ll check in the morning. For now you’d better sleep on the couch, and while you’re at it you’d better work out a fucking plan for dealing with all this shit. Either that, or we’re both gonna be as dead as your fucking friend up in Spic Harlem.”

Hammond’s weary nod confirmed the truth of that.

“So, what did you come up with on Zalesie?”

Gabriel shrugged.

“Nothing special. According to police and immigration records, he’s exactly who and what he says he is. Seriously wealthy arms dealer, exiled Lithuanian fucking count, friends in high fucking places, one of the inside folks at fifty-eight, and not a man to fuck around with. . . I guess you just fucking well figured that one out, huh?”

“And you’re sure about his background?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. I checked the records, all the way back. He’s clean.”

“So why would he send people after me?”

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe this fucking Nazi you had the bust-up with jumped the gun.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Anyway, we’re not gonna figure anything out this time of night, and I need my fucking beauty sleep. You get the couch. There’s a blanket in the cupboard outside the bathroom. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thanks. Just one more question. How did an exiled Lithuanian arms dealer get to be so friendly with the Folks at Fifty-Eight? I mean these are serious businessmen, of long-term financial standing and impeccable social credentials. Zalesie may be hugely wealthy, but he’s not one of them. He’s just another wealthy immigrant.”

Gabriel looked knowingly back.

“How the fuck do you think he got to be so fucking friendly with them? And how do you suppose he got all of that money out of Lithuania or wherever in the first fucking place?”

“I don’t know. I never had that problem, I’m sorry to say.”

“You ever hear of a Wall Street law firm called Cartwright, Chambers and Kent?”

“Should I have?”

“They specialize in international law. More importantly, they specialize in handling government trade agreements with foreign fucking governments: places like Austria and Germany and Italy. Least they did before the U.S. entered the war and the Trading with the Enemy Act started showing some fucking teeth. Since that screwed ’em, they’ve spent most of their time trying to get their fucking money out of wherever they fucking made it.”

“You mean money laundering?”

“Who the fuck do you think shipped Zalesie’s money into the States?”

“Cartwright, Chambers, and whoever you said?”

“Kent. . . And yeah, that’s precisely fucking who.”

The penny suddenly dropped.

“Chambers! You don’t mean. . . ?”

“I mean Daniel fucking Chambers. For a second there I thought you’d fallen a-fucking-sleep on me, J. Edgar.”

“It seems you’ve been busy while I’ve been away.”

“That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it? And that reminds me.”

Gabriel held out his hand. Hammond grinned.

“How much?”

“If I’m checking out all of this latest shit tomorrow, and with all the expenses so far, we’ll call it a flat five hundred. I’ll let the night’s board and lodging go.”

Hammond grinned wryly as he handed over ten pristine fifty-dollar bills.

“You’re all heart.”

The following morning, Gabriel sauntered down to his old precinct. He broke the news when he returned. He had found no mention of the incident, no sign of any dead bodies or abandoned Cadillacs on Highway One, and no reports filed.

“As far as New York’s finest go, you’re in the fucking clear, J. Edgar. There’s no record of any of it, and I mean not fucking anywhere. Looks like someone somewhere cleared everything up in a major fucking hurry.”

“In that case I’d better check back into my hotel, call Zalesie and arrange a meeting.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me?”

“No, I’m not spending my life looking over my shoulder, wondering if the man behind me is going to stick a knife in my kidneys. If Zalesie ordered the hit he’ll send someone. If he turns up in person, maybe we can talk. Either way, at the end of it I’ll know.”

“Sounds like a high-risk fucking strategy to me, J. Edgar?”

“Maybe so, but it’s not just me involved. You see, there’s Emma to think of, and my parents down in Marco Island, and even foul-mouthed irascible you. In fact, anybody I’m related to, or close to, or work with. When you spend your life looking over your shoulder, it doesn’t just affect you, it affects everybody around you. I’ve seen it before in other people, and I’m not living the rest of my life like that.”

Some distance to the north of where Hammond and Gabriel sat pondering his motives, Conrad Zalesie had returned to the Connecticut estate, where he was dealing with those who had disobeyed his orders. Cowed and apologetic, Simon Cowdray offered his mitigation.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Linz gave me no choice. He said he was one of the original five Children of Etzel and that he’d deal with you.”

Zalesie stopped ranting and looked hard at the Englishman.

“He said he was one of the original five, and he’d deal with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he specifically mentioned the Children of Etzel?”

“Yes, sir. They were his actual words.”

Despite his anger, Zalesie remained outwardly calm.

“Were they now? What else did he say?” Cowdray looked uneasy. Zalesie immediately picked up on it. “Well, what is it?”

“It wasn’t so much what Mr Linz said, sir. It was something else, something Mr Hammond said.”

“Well?”

“I wasn’t there, sir. One of the staff told me.”

“Told you what?”

“About Catherine, sir. Mr Hammond accused Mr Linz of raping her when she was twelve, and systematically abusing her when they were in Berlin and Prague. . . I don’t know the truth of it. I’m sorry, sir.”

Zalesie sat in silence. He was recalling bygone days, remembering his late wife’s unease over Kube’s frequent visits and the Gestapo man’s trips to the park with Catherine. It had been so out of character for the boorish Kube, but at the time he had been too preoccupied to listen to his wife, or notice his daughter, or care about anything but the war. Zalesie was also recalling Hammond’s warning on protecting Catherine and realizing the reason for it. He felt the guilt and rage welling up, but maintained the calm exterior.

“I think you had better send Mr Linz in. Oh, and unless otherwise instructed, the moment he leaves this room you are to deal with him. Do you understand?”

Simon Cowdray nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I know you were friends.”

Moments later, a significantly less subservient Kube took the Englishman’s place.

“So what did that little worm have to say for himself? Christ! I could not believe it when they said Hammond had escaped.”

Zalesie gestured to a chair.

“Sit down, Martin, and tell me why you gave the order to have Hammond killed when Cowdray told you that I had specifically forbidden it.”

Kube had obviously decided that attack was his only defence.

“You had forbidden it? You forget, I am one of the original five. I am the same as you. I do as I damn well please.”

Zalesie preserved the façade of self-control.

“Martin, in nineteen thirty-nine the Reich had over one hundred infantry divisions, six armoured divisions and two thousand war planes at its disposal. A year later there were even more. We needed many commanders, and yet had only one Führer. Do you understand what I am saying when I tell you that?”

“You are trying to tell me you see yourself as the new Führer?”

Despite the provocation, Zalesie remained unruffled.

“Of course not, Martin. There was only ever one Führer. We loved him at the time, but now he is dead. I, on the other hand, am alive and the sole appointed leader of the Children, appointed by the Reichsführer, with approval from the Führer himself. I swore an oath when they appointed me, Martin. I swore the Children would endure. The Children of Etzel will endure. It is the same oath that you yourself took. Do you remember that, Martin?”

Kube shrugged his shoulders.

“I remember it well enough, but now I have things to attend to.”

Kube got to his feet and turned to walk away. Zalesie’s self-control finally snapped. He roared his anger and produced an artillery-model nine-millimetre Luger from a side drawer of the desk. In one practiced movement he pulled back and released the protruding cylindrical grips, and then directed the most famous of World War Two side-arms at Martin Kube’s head.

“Sit down, Martin, or I swear on all I hold sacred that I will kill you where you stand.”

Kube hurriedly sat down. The bravado dissolved. His eyes scanned the room, as if searching for some avenue of escape, while familiar beads of sweat slid over flabby cheeks and ran down to his neck. He began to speak in a babble of mitigation and contrition, but a second roar from Zalesie stopped him in mid-utterance.

“You are a fool, and you are a coward. Now be quiet.”

The wild-eyed stare of apprehension focused on the barrel’s menace. Thick and arid lips snapped closed. Zalesie noted the show of submission and calmed his anger. With the Luger still levelled at Kube’s head he continued.

“I never liked the Gestapo, Martin; few true soldiers did. No stomach for a fight, you see, no guts and no discipline, but the Reichsführer appointed you and we had to accept it.”

He lowered the pistol. Kube visibly relaxed.

“However, my patience is not inexhaustible and I have my limits. If you ever revoke my orders, or threaten The Children’s endurance in any way ever again, I swear I will kill you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Yes, Josef. I apologize.”

“No, Martin. It is yes, Conrad. I have told you many times. You are never to use those names. Is that finally understood?”

“Yes, Conrad.”

“And if you ever again refer to my wife as a whore, I will take it as a personal insult. She has her work to do, and she does it well. You are to treat her with respect. Now tell me about these things that Hammond claimed about your relationship with Catherine, in Berlin and Prague.”

Kube looked even more nervous. Zalesie smiled a comforting smile.

“Martin, we have known each other for many years. Sometimes we have our quarrels, but I have always trusted you. It was wartime, and I know just how provocative my daughter was. I can only think she must have inherited it from her mother.” He smiled again, and idly reminisced. “Her mother was just the same, when she was young. My God! She used to drive me to distraction. She was so beautiful, and teased me mercilessly.”

He stood up and rounded the table, then placed a comforting arm around Kube’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, my old friend. It is of no great importance. The Children will endure, Martin. That was our oath then, and it is our oath now. Nothing will change that.”

Kube looked hugely relieved.

“I am so sorry, Joseph. I mean, Conrad. You are right: she used to tease me all the time. She knew exactly what she was doing to me. I couldn’t help myself. But I would never hurt her. I loved her. You must believe that. I still do.”

Conrad Zalesie nodded quietly and guided him to the door.

“Do not worry about it, Martin. Catherine always has been wilful. She probably always will be. But now I have to try and sort out this problem with Hammond. We will talk later.”

“Thank you, Conrad. Thank you so much.”

“Ah, at last, Herr Linz.”

When a smiling Marin Kube opened Zalesie’s study door and stepped into the corridor outside, he paid no attention to Cowdray, or to the assassin’s smile. Neither could he have seen the nod of affirmation from Zalesie.

Had he done so, he might have heeded the rattlesnake’s clatter. He might have detected the serpent’s warning and offered a defence, avoided the peril, or evaded the strike. But he did none of those. He merely grunted at Cowdray and began to walk away.

For his part, Simon Cowdray had his own score to settle with Martin Kube. Weeks of insult and humiliation may not have disrupted the Englishman’s calm exterior and subservient façade, but beneath that forced servility Cowdray had seethed. Each time Kube disdainfully summoned him and insulted him and humiliated him, and then arrogantly dismissed him, Simon Cowdray hid his fury, said nothing, and bided his time.

But now that time was at hand.

As he slipped the wire around Kube’s bulbous neck and drew it tight, Simon Cowdray didn’t consider the man who begged and pleaded for his life in strangled gasps. He didn’t feel the fingernails that desperately clawed at his hands, or see the eyes that bulged from their sockets in horror. He didn’t feel the weight of the lumbering torso, or notice the legs that thrashed and kicked, and finally buckled.

He didn’t even feel the wire that bit into his hands as he increased the pressure, or acknowledge the look of hatred and loathing on the watching face of Conrad Zalesie. But as he choked the last strangled breath from the child rapist and mindless thug who had once been Martin Kube, Simon Cowdray felt strangely elated and somehow cleansed.

Zalesie dispassionately studied the corpse.

“Thank you, Simon. Perhaps you could dispose of that.”

Cowdray had never heard Zalesie call him that before. It completed his joy. He slipped the wire back into his pocket and massaged his hands.